


Make This Easy

by thepartyresponsible



Series: Give Me Mercy [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Hook-Up, M/M, Scars, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 15:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17748911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepartyresponsible/pseuds/thepartyresponsible
Summary: Frank had subconsciously filtered him out as the newest highlight in the endless parade of walking muscle caught in the orbit of the Stark business, but, now that he’s looking, he can see that this kid’s out of his territory.That’s a Gotham Knights shirt under his beat-up leather jacket. And the outline of a bat, sleek and stylized, is branching across his shoulders.Well,Frank thinks, raising his eyebrows.Alright, then.





	Make This Easy

**Author's Note:**

> As a general warning, this series is darker than my normal, so please double-check those warnings and tags. Please also be advised that, even though I couldn't find a tag for "Everyone is Some Kind of Asshole," that sentiment still absolutely applies.

                The first sign of trouble is the way Clint slides to his feet, focused and alert. Barney turns like he can feel the pressure change, gaze tracking to Clint and then moving to the door, and Frank’s frowning, brow furrowing up, because the guy that just walked in doesn’t look like anything worth worrying about.

                He’s tall and muscular, dark-haired, broad-shouldered. Early twenties, maybe, and pretty, in a young and breakable way that Frank doesn’t see around here much. He walked in like he belonged, and Frank had subconsciously filtered him out as the newest highlight in the endless parade of walking muscle caught in the orbit of the Stark business. But now that Frank’s looking, he can see that this kid’s out of his territory.

                That’s a Gotham Knights shirt under his beat-up leather jacket. And the outline of a bat, sleek and stylized, is branching across his shoulders.

                _Well_ , Frank thinks, raising his eyebrows. _Alright, then_.

                Nobody from New York would stitch a bat into the back of their jacket. Not unless they wanted it ripped off and fed back to them.

                Frank looks to Barney, trying to gauge whether he should escort this kid out. There’s a complicated look on Barney’s face, something sullen and unenthused, but Clint tips the kid a nod that’s oddly respectful, which indicates to Frank that he’s tied to money. Some important person’s rebellious son, probably, or a rich man’s favorite piece of not-quite-jailbait.

                But that doesn’t explain why Clint’s watching him so closely. Or why Barney’s got a look on his face like someone just spat in his beer.

                There’s a shuffling in Frank’s head, a reallocation of his attention, when the kid settles onto a barstool and pulls a gun from the small of his back. Frank gets a flash of skin and scar tissue, and then the gun’s on the bar, and the kid’s pushing it across to Geno, who swipes it with bored professionalism and heads for the safe.  

                It’s a ballsy move, bringing a gun to Barney’s. The fact that no one says anything suggests that it’s some kind of prearranged compromise, that somehow this kid has enough bargaining power to _earn_ a compromise.

                And that Sig P220 is its own message. It’s not a gun for kids or tourists. It’s not as easily or as cheaply acquired as a Glock 17. And the kid handles it smoothly, not shy or showy about how he draws it and passes it along. His body language leans flashy, but his grip on the gun is professional.

                So. Probably not anybody’s piece of anything, then.

                “Hey, Frank,” Clint says, as he moves to join Frank by the door. Frank nods a distracted hello, keeps his eyes on the target. The kid’s grinning as he orders whatever it is pretty people from Gotham order in Stark-controlled bars in New York. Geno, to his credit, looks thoroughly unimpressed.

                “Could be trouble,” Clint says. He doesn’t look like he minds much, but this is Barney’s bar, not his.

                “That kid?” It’s not that Frank doesn’t believe him. Hell, Clint would know better than he would. But the Bartons hired Frank for a reason, and he’s a little offended that they’re getting so damn worked up over a twenty-something in a leather jacket.

                However well he might handle a gun, whatever gun he might pick, Frank’s got no doubt that he’s better, and faster, and meaner than whoever this guy turns out to be.

                Clint hums to himself. He doesn’t talk much. Frank’s been here two months, and he didn’t realize Clint _could_ talk until the Goddamn Black Widow of New York came swanning into the bar a couple weeks back and Clint unhinged his jar and dropped what had to be hundreds of words right into her lap.

                And so that’s how Frank learned that the Clint Barton can talk just fine, but he’s remarkably choosey about who hears him.

                “He has,” Clint starts and then pauses, eyes narrowing as he thinks his way through it. He nods across the room, at the table of men in suits where Obadiah Stane is holding court. “A difference in business philosophies,” Clint says, finally. “With them.”

                Frank cannot fucking imagine what that means, but he doesn’t want any more information. Clint’s good about things like that. Barney slips up sometimes, but Clint’s always thoughtfully vague about Stark business.

                Frank’s been very clear about how quickly he’ll walk away from this job the second anyone tries to drag him too deep into Stark’s bullshit. It’s a hell of a paycheck, and he’s glad Curtis asked Sam Wilson for the favor. The money’s worth the bruised knuckles and the late nights. But it sure as hell isn’t worth a bullet in the head, not when he’s got two kids at home.

                It’s probably not even worth a bullet in someone else’s head, although Frank, as usual, is fuzzier about that line than he should be.

                “Okay,” Frank says, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

                Clint tips a smile his direction. Frank doesn’t get many of those from him. It’s small, half-assed and deliberate, looks like something he learned in a mirror. But there’s approval in his eyes that seems genuine enough, close to some kind of trust.

                 Clint shoulders his way up from the wall. “If he causes a problem with Stane, end it immediately. If he starts shit with any of the others, stop it. But if one of them starts something with him…” He shrugs, steps away. “Let him make his point.”

                Clint leaves the main floor entirely, and it’s possible he’s just heading downstairs to set up for the Stark-Wayne meeting, but it’s also possible that he’s intentionally removing himself from the situation so he won’t have to report on it. The fact that Barney gets up from Stane’s table and heads downstairs a minute or so later cements in Frank’s mind the idea that there’s some kind of political bullshit going on.

                Frank sits up, stretches out his neck. Watches.

                Stane looks amused by the turn of events, unconcerned as he smokes his way through his cigar. He keeps giving the kid assessing looks, staring right at him with a level of blunt focus that would aggravate the hell out of Frank but doesn’t seem to bother the kid at all. If anything, he seems to preen under the attention, lounging against the bar, flirting more and more aggressively with Geno, who’s over twice the kids age and almost twice his size and is weathering his attentions with a grim forbearance that’s edging closer to outright annoyance. 

                The atmosphere in the bar is off, fraught and tense. It’s to be expected, maybe, because Bruce Wayne is in town and nothing about the Gotham-New York relationship is simple or casual or even all that friendly. But there’s something between Stane and this Knights fan that ratchets it up, feels personal. Feels like a safety fuse burning down, the whole Goddamn bar sliding closer and closer to ignition.

                It takes half an hour for the fight to build.

                Frank watches while the kid drinks two beers and fails to get Geno’s number. He watches while Stane leans over and murmurs something into the ear of the man sitting next to him, who’s the youngest at the table, maybe late-30s, wearing a suit that mimics but can’t quite match the level of sophistication surrounding him. The man laughs, eyes flashing toward the bar, and Frank gives him another couple drinks before he makes his move, but the guy’s braver or stupider than anticipated. He knocks back the rest of his whiskey, smirks Stane’s direction, and then he pushes back his chair and heads for the bar.

                He wedges himself right into the kid’s space, hipchecking his knee to make room, and there’s a slow, ugly smile on his face as he leans into the bar, holds his hand up to order another round while keeping his eyes pinned right on the kid’s face.

                Geno, looking long-suffering, fucks off to the other end of the bar, putting himself close to that baseball bat he keeps tucked away.

                Frank gets to his feet, starts rolling his shoulders.

                There’s a long, drawn-out pause where nothing happens.

                The businessmen are laughing at their table, but Stane’s staring across the bar, mouth quirked up in something that isn’t quite a smile. The guy is way too close to the kid, touching him more than he needs to. He hooks a hand in the kid’s shirt, tugs at it, taps his fingers against the cracked and faded Knights logo, and leans in to say something too loud right into his ear. The kid tilts his head back, leaning away, and there’s a look on his face exactly like Russo used to get, right before a mission. Venomous and patient, snakelike.

                It’s a good look for him, all that anger. Highlights the strong line of his jaw when he grinds his teeth together.

                Something shivers awake in the pit of Frank’s stomach, and it’s dizzying, how much he missed that kick of adrenaline.

                The kid finally speaks, lips moving but jaw still held tight, and Frank gets this weird idea that, if the kid smiled, he’d show row upon row of serrated teeth. Shark’s teeth. A Goddamn nightmare of teeth, poorly hidden behind that pretty mouth.

                The guy leans in, murmurs something else, and Frank can tell from the way the kid tenses up that it’s too far, too much, too fucking stupid. _Careless_ , Frank thinks.

                And then the man reaches up, laughing, smiling that same hungry smile, and he puts his hand on the kid’s face.

                It’s impossible to tell whether he was going to run his thumb down the kid’s cheek or pat at him like a dog, because there’s a split second where the kid is completely, unbelievably still, and then, almost faster than Frank can track, he’s got his hand hooked around the guy’s neck and he’s slamming him, face first, right into the bar.

                There’s a sick, meaty _crunch_ and a scream and the shattering of glass, and the kid slams him into the bar twice more before he shoves the guy to the floor and holds the back of his head while he knees him, hard, right in the face.

                The man slumps to the ground, spilling blood and teeth on the floor, and the kid’s hand curls around the broken pint glass on the bar, but Clint’s on him, hooking his arms around his chest, pulling him back.

                He doesn’t trap the kid’s arms, and Frank’s moving fast across the bar, eyes on the sharp edges of that broken glass, but the kid reaches back with his free hand, tangles his fingers in Clint’s hair, brushes Clint’s hearing aid with his thumb, and then he goes kitten-limp in Clint’s arms, drops the glass to the ground, lets himself get hauled out of the bar, laughing the whole fucking way.

                Frank follows them out, spares one glance backwards to check on the rest of the bar.

                Geno’s hauling the idiot off the floor. His face is a bashed-up mess of meat and blood, nose badly broken, skin opened up by deep cuts from the glass.

                Across the room, Stane looks smug as he reaches his whiskey. And Frank hasn’t found many reasons to like Stane, but he’s never going to trust a man who looks so Goddamn pleased while one of his guys is bleeding on the floor.

                Frank steps outside where Clint’s sweeping the kid’s feet out from under him and dropping him to the sidewalk. There’s a look on his face Frank hasn’t seen before, pinched and pale and _serious_. “You’re out, Todd. Get out of here.”

                There’s blood splattered down the front of the kid’s shirt, sprayed across his face, and he’s still laughing as he wipes it off his chin with the back of his hand. “C’mon, Clint,” he says, “Stane started it.”

                “He started it?” Clint gestures sharply back toward the bar, pointing through the wall toward Stane, and it’s an interesting gesture, because his thumb’s sticking straight up and his index finger ticks in like he’s pulling a trigger. “He’s sitting at a table, Jason. The fuck did he start?”

                The kid – _Jason_ , apparently - runs his hand into his hair, smears a small streak of red along his hairline. “You know what he did,” he says. He’s still laughing on the end of every exhale, repetitive and almost manic, like he can’t stop.

                Clint stares down at him. Frank’s used to a level of impassive awareness from Clint, that notorious Hawkeye watchfulness. He hasn’t seen many emotions from him, and disappointment’s brand new.

                 “I know you just gave up your seat at the table,” Clint says. “And I know there’ll be a lot of kids in New York who’re gonna wish you hadn’t.”

                The laughter cuts off sharp.

                The kid works his jaw and goes to climb to his feet, mouth pulling up in an ugly, angry snarl. Clint gets his hand on his shoulder and shoves, and there’s a moment where Frank thinks they’re gonna brawl it out right here, in the heart of Barton’s territory, where there’ll be no recourse that doesn’t end in a potentially regrettable level of violence, but then the kid’s knees fold, and he’s sprawled back out on the sidewalk.

                “You’re out of your depth,” Clint tells him. “You’re not ready for this. Get out.”

                Clint turns and heads back for the bar, and Frank thinks he’s going to walk right past him, but he slows and then stops by Frank’s shoulder, staring hard at Stane through the window. He takes a breath and then exhales, slow and controlled.

                There’s blood on his neck and hands, smeared on the sleeves of his white shirt. He’ll need to clean up and change before the meeting.

                But this is the kind of necessity these people plan for. The Bartons keep a closet full of clothes in the spare room upstairs. Two months in, and Frank’s already growing familiar with the less pleasant practicalities of their work, no matter how much many blind eyes he turns.

                “Get him back to his hotel room.” Clint tips his head Jason’s direction without looking back. “And then go home for the night, Frank. You won’t like the rest of this.”

                Frank’s not sure he likes any part of this job, except for the paycheck. And maybe there’s something nice, almost medicinal, in the way he gets to drag people out into the alley sometimes and illustrate the idiocy of causing trouble in Barton’s bar.

                But he’s nobody’s babysitter. And he doesn’t work for Stark, isn’t involved in Stark or Wayne business. And that kid, half-kneeling on the sidewalk, looks like Wayne business.

                “It’s fine, Frank,” Clint says, eyes meeting Frank’s. “You’re just giving someone a ride.”

                Clint’s the careful brother, the considerate one. Clint’s never once asked Frank for anything that he wouldn’t ask the other non-Stark affiliated staff to do.

                “Pay you overtime,” Clint offers. “For your trouble.”

                “Yeah,” Frank says, because he’s learned that overtime is code for double, and it’s not like he’s getting hazard pay anymore. “Alright.”

                Clint nods, knocks his knuckles against Frank’s shoulder as he passes, and then he’s back in the bar, and Frank’s just standing on the sidewalk like an asshole, watching Jason pluck a cigarette out of a crumpled pack and light it with bloody fingers that aren’t quite shaking.

                “Let’s go,” Frank says, because he doesn’t have time for this shit.

                Jason gives him a considering look, mouth quirking around the cigarette. “When I’m done,” he says and then takes a slow, pointed drag that displays exactly how much he isn’t in a hurry.

                Frank raises his eyebrows. “You waiting around for something? Wanna lure another guy out here and fuck him up to make a point?”

                “ _Lure_ ,” Jason repeats, teeth flashing in a savage grin. “Is that what you think I did?”

                There’s a weight to the question that Frank doesn’t get, but he’s always going to know a loaded gun when it’s pressed to his forehead. “I think you got played,” he says.

                Jason’s eyes narrow, a hint of that angry snarl curling up one side of his mouth. “The fuck do you know about it?” He eyes Frank again, and his gaze lingers on Frank’s throat and hands, all the bare skin he can see, like he’s searching for some of Stark’s tattoos. “Who the hell are you?”

                “Nobody,” Frank says, immediately. It’s not an apology; it’s a shield. “I’m nobody.”

                Something complicated passes quickly over Jason’s face. He takes another drag of his cigarette, ashes it dangerously close to his own skin. “Then be nobody,” he advises, “and keep your fucking mouth shut.”

                No one’s talked to Frank like that since his first deployment. He’s sure as hell not used to getting that amount of lip from somebody at least ten years younger than he is. If he were smarter, maybe he’d keep his mouth shut, like the kid said.

                 “That’s two nobodies you’ve let get you to tonight,” he says, instead of going quiet. “Maybe you should work on that.”

                Jason stares up at him for a long second before he snorts and looks away, mouth twisting up, eyes going flat and troubled. He’s sitting on the curb, long legs kicked out in front of him, watching the traffic that rushes by a few feet from his boots. There’s blood drying on the front of his shirt, and not a single person is making eye-contact as they drive by.

                “Get out of the street,” Frank tells him, because someone has to.

                “Get fucked,” Jason returns, idly. He’s still flirting with that cigarette, teasing it instead of smoking it, and Frank wants to be home with his children, not standing here watching some idiot Gothamite fuck around.

                “You’ve got some mouth on you,” he says.

                Jason glances up at him, and there’s a flash of that preternatural stillness again, and then, suddenly, he’s grinning. The blood smudged on his chin makes the white of his teeth look even brighter.

                “You noticed, huh?” Jason says, eyes crawling slowly up Frank’s body, knees to chest and back down again.

                There’s no mistaking a look that blatant for anything other than a come-on. And it’s not that Frank hasn’t or wouldn’t. It’s just that he can tell – could tell from the second Jason slid that gun across the bar – that it’s a really bad idea.

                “Get up,” Frank says. “You’ve gotta go.”

                Jason climbs to his feet, languid and showy, stretching as he goes. That ruined shirt pulls tight across his chest, and it’s old, worn thin, looks like he acquired it before he put on all that muscle. It looks good on him, and the blood should ruin that, but it really, really doesn’t.

                When Frank looks back up at Jason’s face, he finds him smirking, looking almost as smug as Stane had earlier. “Take me home,” Jason says, like it’s an order. “You got a place near here?”

                Frank cannot believe the balls on this kid. “No.” He’s as clear about that as he possibly can be. “I’m taking you back to your hotel.”

                Jason laughs, takes a final drag on his cigarette, and then flicks it right into traffic. “That works, too.”

                Frank meant it as a rejection, not a counteroffer, but he’s not going to fight about it. Not here. Not right in front of Barney’s bar.

                “Come on,” he says, instead.

                Jason falls in step beside him. It’s nothing like working with Russo used to be, except there’s another tall, pretty, dark-haired man walking beside him. There shouldn’t be anything familiar or comfortable about it, except Jason checks corners and scans the skyline and walks steady and light on his feet, and it’s not _backup_ , but Frank thinks, at the very least, nobody’s going to sneak up on them.

                It bothers the hell out of him, and he’s not sure why.

                When they climb in his truck, he’s ready for some shitty commentary, some bitching about the state of it, but Jason just double-takes at the collection of kid-related crap cluttering up the backseat and then side-eyes Frank for a second before settling into the passenger seat.

                “You got kids?” Jason asks, about five minutes into the ride.

                “No,” Frank says, rolling his eyes, “I just transport some sometimes.”

                There’s a sudden shift in the seat next to him, and the look Jason’s giving him is calm and thoughtful and _dangerous_ , and it’s nothing like how Maria looked at him, but it’s a little like how Russo used to, back before he decided Frank was a lost cause.

                “Two,” Frank says, after a beat. “I’ve got two kids.”

                The expression on Jason’s face complicates and then softens, and he smiles almost wistfully as he tips his head to look out the window. “Should be home with them. It’s late.”

                “I gotta make rent, same as everybody else,” Frank snaps. And then, as an addendum, “Go fuck yourself.”

                He gets another one of those switchblade grins, fast and bright and throat-slitting sharp. “Was kinda hoping for your help with that.”

                “Jesus Christ,” Frank mutters, changing lanes, refusing to look over.

                The kid’s staying at the Carlyle, and Frank can’t for the life of him figure him out. _Jason Todd_ is not a name he recognizes, but Frank knows as few people as possible, and he knows almost nothing about Gotham. Staying at a hotel like that, he’s got to have money or connections or both, but he dresses like something Frank could fish out of a dumpster in the rougher areas of the Bronx.

                Or maybe not a dumpster. Given the way he smiles, the clean angle of his cheekbones, the sculpted stretch of his muscles, maybe this kid belongs on a street corner somewhere or lazing mostly naked around some rich asshole’s pool.

                But then there’s the gun they left in a safe at Barney’s bar. That Sig. And there’s the hint of scar tissue Frank saw on the small of his back, in that split second when he reached back for his gun.

                And there’s the way he carries himself. Not military, not law enforcement. Not heavy like hired muscle or brash like someone’s ring fighter. But _something_.

                There’s some kind of predator under his skin, the same way there’s one under Frank’s. Maybe this kid’s teeth run a little closer to the surface, but Frank still recognizes his own. It’s just weird as hell to find someone like him caged up in a body like that. He wonders if that’s what he looked like in his early twenties, some unholy mashup of empty eyes and soft edges, baby fat barely lingering on a body already smelted into a weapon.

                He was never that pretty, but Russo used to be. Maybe that burning match energy is something boys like them learn early. Self-immolation as a form of self-protection. Nobody’s going to get their hands on them if they’re already on fire.

                It makes him sad, somehow, which is absolute bullshit. He damn sure didn’t ask for this, and Jason looks like he’d spit his sympathy right back in his face anyway.

                It takes half an hour to drive this kid all the way up to Manhattan, and Frank’s brain feels like it’s bleeding at the edges by the time they get close, kicking around in bad memories, thinking about Russo, thinking about being kids together, going to war, coming back as something else.

                “C’mon,” Jason says. He’s sprawled in his seat, grinning like something wicked, blue eyes pinned on Frank’s face. “Never thought I’d have to work so hard for someone who ran with Barton.”

                “I don’t run with Barton.” Frank doesn’t run with anyone. He does a job. He gets paid. He doesn’t have a unit or a team or any kind of family at all, except the two kids at home and a box with Maria’s ashes. “And you haven’t worked for a fucking thing.”

                Jason leans forward, mouth going wide in a grin that isn’t friendly but isn’t quite a threat, either. His hand lands on Frank’s knee, works up. “My mistake,” he says, almost laughing.

                “I’m gonna break that hand,” Frank says. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. He could push Jason away. He could peel that hand off his thigh. He could elbow this kid in the face and throw him into oncoming traffic.

                He doesn’t. Jason inches his hand higher, runs his fingers up the seam of Frank’s jeans, putting steady, gentle pressure on the inside of Frank’s thigh.

                Frank takes a breath, gets a stutter-y, faded memory of Maria’s smiling face, and he moves before he thinks. His fingers closed hard around Jason’s wrist, and he jerks his arm back, stops with his elbow just barely pressed to Jason’s throat.

                “Oh fuck,” Jason groans, low and pleased, like Frank grabbed his dick instead of damn near crushing his windpipe. “I knew I liked you.”

                “Kid,” Frank says, dropping the hand, gripping the steering wheel again, “you’ve got to get your shit together.”

                “ _Kid_ ,” Jason says, like it’s a delight, like it’s a joke.

                “Yeah,” Frank says, resolute. “Can you buy your own drinks yet?”

                Jason’s silent for long enough that Frank actually glances over. He’s getting one hell of a weird look. Some of that rough-edged cynicism Jason’s been armored with has faded, and he’s got a surprised, charmed look to him, a new kind of smile, sweet and a bit dopey.

                “You think there’s a bar on this coast that would tell me no?” he asks, teeth catching on that stupid smile, like he wants to bite it back, eat whatever sweetness he’s got left.

                It’s a message or a threat or a warning. _You think there’s a bar on this coast that would tell me no?_

                “How the fuck would I know?” Frank says. “ _I’d_ tell you no.”

                Although he wouldn’t, probably. Because he wouldn’t card soldiers, either, and this kid’s got a look like he’s been at war since he was old enough to hold a gun.

                Besides, there’s a fair chance he’s twenty-one. He’s around there, anyway. It’s hard to call. His eyes don’t match the rest of him.

                “What’s your name?” Jason asks. He’s got another hungry look in his eyes, but it’s playful, less antagonistic. For a second, he could be any young, brave kid, punching above his weight, trying to pull someone who’s not so much out of his league as just out of the game entirely.

                “Frank,” he says, because it’s not a secret. Everyone at Barton’s place knows who he is.

                “Well, Frank,” he says, leaning forward again, “maybe you should reconsider telling me no.”

                Frank snorts, because, honestly, for fuck’s sake. “That some kind of threat?”

                Jason laughs. He’s still got that dumb look on his face, though he’s picking up his sharp edges again. “It’s an invitation.”

                Whatever the hell it is, it’s definitely more complicated than an invitation. But it’s been awhile. It’s not like Frank goes out. He’s at work or he’s at home, and even Curtis doesn’t really call all that often anymore. He’s been building his own isolation tank, bricking himself off from everything and everyone, and he’s been fine, the way he’s always fine in darkness, right up until he catches sight of sunlight.

                This kid isn’t sunlight, but he’s so full of life he’s poisoning himself with it, and Frank’s been iced over for so long that any kind of thaw seems interesting, even if he knows it’s not going to end well.

                When they pull up to the appallingly fussy hotel, Jason shoves his door open and hangs out, yells to the valet guys about taking the truck. Frank wants to drive off with him still halfway inside, but he finds himself stepping out instead, handing off his keys, fascinated by the way people here react to Jason, like everyone else sees a well-dressed, well-mannered young man in a suit and Frank’s the only one seeing a sunken-eyed disaster in a bloodstained shirt and combat boots.

                “Gotta see me to my room,” Jason says, as he steps backward toward the door. “Promised Barton you’d keep me out of trouble, right? Trust me. Me and hotel bars have a _history_.”

                Frank follows him inside, rolling his eyes, still not sure how far he’s going to let himself push this. He hates everything about the place, the ornate crown molding and the pristine floors and the imposing black desk with the sleekly dressed woman whose winning smile doesn’t quite mask the alarm in her eyes. The place is a nightmare, sightlines disrupted, everything echoing, light bouncing off all the reflective surfaces, and there are people _everywhere_ , cluttered around, watching them, hovering like stunned hummingbirds.

                “C’mon,” Jason says and herds him into an elevator, where there is, honest-to-God, someone waiting to push the fucking buttons for them. “It’s a horror show, right?” The kid’s watching him, eyes lit up, smile feral all over again.

                It couldn’t be more clear that Frank doesn’t belong in a place like this. He’s doing his best not to think about why everyone’s so diligently pretending Jason does.

                They hit the 31st floor like they’re raiding the place, and Frank feels pulled along, feels like he lost his footing somehow and hasn’t found it yet. Feels like, maybe, he doesn’t want to.

                He knows he’s got zero interest in getting back into that elevator with that living, breathing automaton. Christ.

                Jason steps into his room, fingers reaching back to curl around Frank’s wrist, and this is the moment. Frank’s always been able to call the moment, the exact point of time when he needs to make a decision. Everything so far has been perfectly under his control. Whatever pull he might be caught in, he can always slip free.

                If he wants to.

                The truth is, since Maria died, he hasn’t wanted a single Goddamn thing.

                She took all the want with her, spooling it out of him when he watched her withering on a hospital bed, cancer eating her alive, killing her so fast that he rushed back stateside and got one week at the bedside of a dying woman who only sometimes knew him. The tide of pain and drugs dragged her back and forth, and he’d catch her hands, sometimes, on the crest of a wave, and then she’d be ripped under all over again.

                He’s been living ever since, because he has to. Because he’s the only one left to care for the children they had together. But he hasn’t been a good father. And he hasn’t been a good friend. He’s been nothing. Like his whole fucking life is just a waiting room, and he’s biding his time until his name’s called.

                Jason tugs on Frank’s wrist, and he could pull free, step away. He’s done his job. The kid is safe, or as safe as people like him are ever going to be.

                It’s best for both of them, probably, if Frank just leaves him alone with whatever demons he can conjure with the minibar and his cellphone. Frank doesn’t need this.

                But, for the first time in months, he _wants_ it.

                “C’mon, Frank,” Jason says, quiet and coaxing, a tease or a taunt or a challenge, and he smiles, crooks up that pretty mouth of his, and then, suddenly, Frank’s standing in a corner suite of the fucking Carlyle, and Jason’s grinning at him like he won something.

                “Fuck yes,” Jason says and shoves him back against the door.

                He’s strong, stronger than Frank anticipated, but he gives up easy when Frank shifts, turns them, pins Jason against the door instead. Frank crowds him, presses into him, and Jason sighs, lets his head thunk back against the door when Frank gets his mouth on his neck. Frank bites because he’s out of practice, needs to work his way up to kissing, but feels perfectly at home doing this, marking pale skin with his teeth.

                “Goddamn, Frank.” Jason breathes out, hooks his fingers in Frank’s beltloops, pulls him closer.

                Frank yanks at Jason’s hands, gets his fingers out of his beltloops, holds his wrists against the door. He’s not sure he likes being touched. Maybe he likes it too much. With Frank, it’s always hard to tell the difference between too much and not at all.

                “Oh, fuck you,” Jason says, squirming against him. “I don’t get to touch you? Bullshit.”

                “You talk too Goddamn much,” Frank tells him, mouthing his way up Jason’s neck, teeth catching on his jaw.

                Jason laughs, already a little breathless. “Shut me up.”

                “Maybe I will,” Frank says.

                He never, not once, talked to Maria or any of the others before her the way he’s talking to Jason now. It’s like he’s forgotten how to do this. It’s like he’s someone new, and all the memories he has of being gentle or attentive or careful are lies he told himself about a life he never lived.

                He closes his eyes, tries not to think about anything except this place, and this time, and this person.

                His tongue catches a jarring, half-familiar taste, and he pulls back, grimaces. He just licked someone else’s blood off Jason’s skin, and Jason’s eyes are half-lidded, pleased. He laughs low in his throat, like he knows exactly what happened.

                “Jesus,” Frank says. “You should clean up.”

                Jason rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna get all pretty just for you, asshole.”

                Frank wonders if there’s a single moment of Jason’s life where he _wasn’t_ some kind of pretty. He wonders if he honestly thinks that’s a thing he can turn off, with a face and body like that.

                “Fine,” Frank says. His eyes catch on the smudge of dried blood on Jason’s chin, and he makes a face, shakes his head. “I’m not kissing you.”

                “Who fucking _asked_?” Jason says, sounding more insulted than he probably wants to, and he jerks his hands free, shows off that strength Frank still hasn’t found the limits of, and palms Frank’s ass like he has any right to it. “You’re not here to kiss me. Fuck’s sake.”

                Frank should be careful, probably. He’s keyed up, the way he always gets when he has his back against any kind of wall, and Jason’s mercurial, aggressive, seems like he’d be just as happy to fight Frank as he is to fuck him. Seems like a fight is something he wants as much as he wants to get off. Wants it in the same way, single-minded and almost desperate.

                They’re at some kind of tipping point. Frank can feel it, that familiar crystallization, that intent focusing of awareness. It’s another moment like the one where he was still half outside the hotel suite, where he can lean one way or the other but has to make a decision.

                There’s a red mark on Jason’s neck, and Frank put it there. He’s never in his life intentionally hurt someone he’s put his mouth on.

                He drops his hands to Jason’s waist, rubs his thumb up the sensitive skin of his stomach, feels the indentions of muscle and then thin, raised lines. Scar tissue. Like someone carved into Jason’s skin.

                “What,” Frank says, pulling away, confused.

                “No,” Jason says, voice serious and clear, and he slaps Frank’s hands away from him.

                For a second, Frank’s reflexively pissed, but, when he glances up, there’s a guarded look on Jason’s face, a new wariness. It’s the first time he’s seen anything like vulnerability from Jason.

                “No?” he says, stepping back.

                “Jesus, Frank,” Jason says, rolling his eyes, leaning hard into irritation in an entirely transparent attempt to cover the genuine alarm Frank just saw on his face. “Not ‘no’ to everything. Just don’t—you can’t—you know what? Fuck this.”

                And then, still heaving a sigh like _Frank’s_ the one being difficult, he folds neatly to his knees right there and starts working on Frank’s belt.

                It’s a hell of a sight, Jason on his knees like that, and Frank thinks there’s probably a perfectly good bed around here somewhere, but it’s not like he cares. Not his suite, not his knees. Not anyone he’ll have to worry about later. Not someone he’s responsible for.

                Frank’s not hard when Jason finally wins his fight against Frank’s belt and clothes, but Jason doesn’t seem to mind all that much, just casts a wry, tolerant look up toward Frank’s face and then leans in, wraps his hand around the base of Frank’s cock, and licks along the head like he’s trying to decide if he’s going to commit to this or not.

                “Shit,” Franks says. It’s surprised out of him. He hasn’t done this since before his last deployment, back when Maria was still healthy, back when they were supposed to have the rest of their lives.

                He thinks maybe this should feel like a betrayal. He thinks maybe it does.

                Jason, who’s shameless, who’s a living Goddamn nightmare, winks up at Frank while his tongue is still teasing at the tip, and then, before Frank can swear at him, he closes his eyes and gets to work.

                He sucks cock like he’s hoping for a tip afterward, like maybe he _does_ belong on a street corner somewhere. Frank gets so hard so fast that he’s almost lightheaded with it, has to brace his hands against the door and breathe out slow, clench his jaw tight to keep from making the kind of noises that would just flatter Jason’s already overinflated ego.

                Jason hums what might be laughter, but, when Frank looks down, he’s got his eyes closed, looks _peaceful_ , and Frank’s gets all kinds of twisted up, drops a hand to Jason’s hair and doesn’t know what to do with it once he’s got it there.

                “Can pull,” Jason says, leaning back. He jacks Frank slow and too light, just another tease. “My hair, I mean. Or fuck my mouth. I didn’t bring you here to be _polite_.” But he drops his eyes when he says it, pulls his dark eyebrows together.

                It’s the first time Jason’s offered something instead of demanding what he wants. It sounds like a concession.

                It occurs to Frank that maybe Jason doesn’t have the first fucking clue what he wants or why he brought Frank here. He thinks about the way Jason had looked outside Barton’s bar, the way he’d gone dark when Clint said, _I know you just gave up your seat at the table. And I know there’ll be a lot of kids in New York who’re gonna wish you hadn’t._

                He thinks about Russo, and all his sharp, poisoned edges, and the way he used to lash out at himself when he couldn’t find any other target.

                _Self-immolation_ , he thinks, for no Goddamn reason at all.

                He tightens his hand in Jason’s hair, and Jason’s eyelashes flutter again, expression going loose. Frank guides him back in, and Jason swallows him down until his lips touch his hand, biddable in a way Frank wouldn’t have believed thirty minutes ago, when he was being such a relentless asshole in the truck.

                _Fuck my mouth_ , Jason says, and Frank thinks about it.

                But it’s a razor-thin line. It’s a tripwire in Frank’s chest. He’s in control for now, but he knows how easy it is to lose that. There’s the person he is when he hurts people, and there’s the person he is when he doesn’t, and he’s not sure how much more he can stand to mix the two of them together. They are, he thinks, toxic to each other.

                Someday, the Frank that was born in a war in Afghanistan is going to butcher and eat the Frank that used to send Maria flowers and help the kids with their art projects and carry his daughter whenever she asked. And that’s inevitable. That’s how these things work.

                But Frank’s not ready to be the kind of man who’d hurt Jason just because he hates himself enough to ask for it, and that’s all Frank’ll do if he lets himself. That’s all he has in him. All that gentleness he saved so carefully for Maria is burned out of him. He’ll hurt Jason as soon as he lets himself have the chance.

                So he holds himself still, instead.

                Jason finds his way to a rhythm that works for both of them, bobs his head, works his mouth with an enthusiasm that’s sloppy and careless and nothing at all like how Maria used to do it. The smooth, shifting feeling of hair in his hands is almost the same, though, even if the hair is so much shorter, and it seems natural, somehow, to cradle Jason’s head with his hand. The door is _right there_ , and Jason’s not being careful, and it’s nice, anyway, to work his fingers through the soft, dark mess of hair that would probably curl, if it were just a bit longer.

                Frank’s not _petting_ him. Not exactly.

                Whatever he’s doing, Jason seems to like it. Frank watches his shoulders relax, feels the way he goes eager and almost plaint, so incredibly responsive.

                He means to warn him, when he’s close. He’s not an asshole.

                But he honestly thinks he’s got more time. And then Jason pulls back, traces his tongue under the crown and opens his eyes, looks right up at him, and it’s over. Frank bites off a curse, and Jason pulls back, and now there’s blood _and_ come on Jason’s face, and Frank cannot fucking believe how hot it is, in that split second before it shifts into disturbing.

                “Fuck,” he says. He watches Jason lick at his mouth, tongue running slow along reddened lips. “Sorry.”

                Jason blinks, looks legitimately startled, and then he grins as he rises to his feet. “Gotta say, Frank,” he says, patting at Frank’s hip, tucking him back into his pants, doing his belt for him. “You’re a lot sweeter than I expected. Didn’t know they had any gentlemen left in this city.”

                Frank huffs out a breath. He’d have some dire things to say about Jason’s baseline for decency if Frank qualifies as a _gentleman_ , but he’s still getting his lungs and heart in order, and, anyway, it’s none of Frank’s business, who else Jason brings home.

                “You’re a mess,” Frank tells him. It comes out low and a little gravely. It sounds, horrifyingly, almost _fond_.

                Jason winks at him again. “Just trying to impress you,” he says. And then he hooks up the hem of his shirt and uses it to wipe at the mess on his face, and all Frank can see, in that sickening drop of seconds that follows, is the beautiful stretch of bare skin that some sick fuck has carved up like a table in a shitty bar.

                _ha_ , Jason’s skins says, down by his hip. _ha_ , over the muscles of his abs. _ha ha ha_ arching across his ribs, running upwards, cut off by the shirt that Jason quickly pulls back down to his hips.

                “What the fuck,” Frank says, breathing it out. His heart has lurched into a slow, steady beat. He’s breathing on a focused pattern.

                _This is wrong_ , he thinks, wondering at his own body, baffled by how it’s somehow gotten confused. _Stand down_ , he tries. He’s not running any missions. There’s no fight here. There’s just a kid with scars all over his chest, a word cut into him, over and over.

                “Sorry,” Jason says, mouth tight, eyes angry. “Didn’t mean for you to see that. I know it’s polite to save all the baggage for the second date.”

                “Fuck, Jason,” Frank says, reaching out, fingers brushing against the bottom of the shirt.

                “No,” Jason says again, sharp and decisive, just like before. He slaps Frank’s hand away, and, when Frank reaches again, he grabs him by the front of the shirt and turns, slams him against the wall. “ _No_ ,” he repeats, definitely a warning this time. “Leave it alone. We’ve had a nice time.”

                “ _I_ had a nice time,” Frank says. Because all Jason got was come on his face, marks on his neck, and lips are so red they look almost bruised.

                Jason’s still for a second, leaning into him, but he relaxes once he seems to get that Frank’s not going to make another grab for his shirt. He smiles. This time, it almost reaches his eyes. “Such a gentleman,” he says, throwing that word out again, and then he steps back. “But there’s nothing else I can get from you that I can’t handle better on my own. So, see you around, Frank. Been a real swell time.”

                Frank stares at him. “You’re such an asshole,” he says, because he can’t tell if he’s offended or impressed, but he thinks maybe he’s meant to be insulted.

                Jason leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. It’d be sweet, if Frank wasn’t a little distracted by the legitimate concern that he’s going to walk away from this with his own come on his face.

                Jason tugs Frank’s shirt straight, double-checks his belt, and then reaches over to open the door. “Goodnight, Frank,” he says.

                “ _Such_ an asshole,” Frank reiterates.

                But he knows a dismissal when he hears one, and, even if Jason’s being insincere, he’s more or less right. This hasn’t been terrible. And it could have been. When Frank steps toward the door, he feels like he walked into the lion’s den and is walking, unharmed, right back out.

                That feeling lasts until he gets his first good look out into the hallway and finds the Goddamn Winter Soldier leaning against the wall opposite, eyes empty, mouth a bloodless line, arms crossed over his chest.

                And that Sig, Jason’s fucking gun, tucked right into his waistband.

                Frank hasn’t had many dealings with Bucky Barnes. He knows he does the dirty work that Stark doesn’t want to ask Rogers to do. He knows he and Barton get along well enough to drink and play darts. He knows he works with the Widow, knows that he’s a killer.

                He knows that Barnes is looking at him like Frank just fucked his girlfriend in his bed.

                “The hell?” Jason says, and Frank feels him press up behind him, pop his chin right over Frank’s shoulder. He hears a quiet, surprised intake of breath. “Oh, hey, Barnes. Is that my gun? Barton got you playing delivery boy?”

                Barnes slides out of his lean like a snake rearing up to strike. Frank has never been intimidated by him, those few times he’s stopped by the bar to grab Clint and head downstairs to talk business, but he’s always known Barnes is dangerous. Knew that before he knew his name or any single damn thing about him.

                “Castle,” he says, voice quiet but steady.

                And, fuck, Frank had no idea that Barnes knew his name. His _full name_.

                “You know Frank?” Jason asks, perking up. His hands wrap around Frank’s hips, directing him a little to the side, and now Frank’s caught between them, Jason’s hand still curled proprietarily around Frank’s hip, Barnes blocking the only way out of the hallway.

                “Not as well as you do.” Barnes’ tone is empty of anything that could justifiably be called an emotion. His eyes work slowly down Jason, focusing on his face, his mouth, his throat, dipping lower.

                “Don’t be jealous,” Jason says. “I told you. You wanna get laid, you gotta ask nice and not be such a fucking mannequin all the time.”

                Frank’s struck with the ludicrous realization that Jason apparently thinks he _asked nice_ for any of what happened between them.

                Barnes looks hard at Jason for a second and then flicks his eyes toward Frank, and Frank feels something in him straining to answer, some feral part of him that’s been hibernating since the diagnosis. Something that wants a gun in his hand and blood in his mouth.

                Jason steps between them, breaking their stare. He shoulders Barnes back against the wall and retrieves his gun, getting handsier than necessary as he does it. “Thanks,” he says, and he kisses him on the cheek, the same way he kissed Frank a few minutes ago.

                There is absolutely, unquestionably some of Frank’s come on the Winter Soldier’s face.

                There’s not a single Goddamn reason in the world that should be as hot as it is.

                Barnes’ jaw tightens, making those scars on his face pull taut. He reaches up and rubs at his cheek, quickly and efficiently neatening himself back up. “I’ve got to get to the meeting,” he says, to Jason. “I’ll come by later.”

                “No shit?” The look that crosses Jason’s face is almost painful. Frank’s been calling him kid all night, but this is the first time he’s looked young. Earnest and hopeful and flattered, and it’s all gone a second later, when he gets control of his face again. “Why, you got work? Want help?”

                “No.” Barnes glances toward Frank. “You gonna be here, too?”

                “Hell yes,” Jason says, apparently forgetting he’s the one who kicked Frank out. “He’ll be here.”

                “No,” Frank says, because there’s the kind of stupid that follows a stranger to a hotel room, and then there’s the kind of stupid that willingly gets in bed with _the Winter Soldier_.

                “Too bad,” Barnes says, and it’s so even-toned that Frank can’t read it at all.

                “Yeah,” Frank says, stepping forward. “You two have a good night.”

                There’s a second where he thinks Barnes is going to hold his ground, but then Jason shifts, and Barnes mirrors, and there’s a clear path out of here. Frank doesn’t consider it a retreat so much as a tactical relocation out of a potential ambush.

                _Jesus Christ_ , he thinks, very distinctly.

                “Should be at this meeting, Red,” Barnes says, barely audible as Frank turns the corner toward the elevator, and that’s the exact moment that it hits.

                _Red_ , he thinks. _Red Hood, Prince of Gotham._

                He just had his dick down the throat of one of Bruce Wayne’s closest acolytes.

                “Fuck,” he says, to the elevator attendant, who blinks at him in professional nonchalance.

                “Ground floor?” he asks, politely.

                “Sure,” Frank says. “Yeah. Get me out of here.”

                He gets to the ground floor, and he steps outside, and they’ve got his truck waiting for him like he’s important, and Frank’s heart doesn’t settle into a practical rhythm until he’s halfway home.

                His phone dings, again and again, more texts than he usually gets in a day, but he doesn’t check it until he’s sitting in his apartment parking garage, feeling like maybe he can just go upstairs and pretend none of this shit ever happened.

                He takes a deep breath and reaches across to grab his phone off the passenger seat. His first text, from Clint, is straightforward: _Todd wants your number?_

                And then, after that, there’s three from Barney. _hahahaha_ and _the balls on you, Castle_ and _i’m not sorry, you brought this on yourself._

                And then one from an unknown number that says: _hey, nobody, I’m here all week_.

                Frank sits in his truck and stares at his phone. He takes in several long, steady breathes. He needs to block the number and go upstairs and tell Clint that he’s not chauffeuring anyone ever again, that he’s not doing anyone anymore Goddamn favors, that he just wants to keep to himself and stay out of Stark and Wayne business.

                But, for some stupid reason, he can’t stop thinking about the words carved into Jason’s skin. All those sharp angles, his crooked grins. The softness of his hair, and the way he’d looked, smoking outside Barney’s bar with blood on his shirt. The Molotov of sudden, volatile despair in his eyes when Clint said _I know you just gave up your seat at the table, and I know there’ll be a lot of kids in New York who’re gonna wish you hadn’t._

                There’s nothing about Jason that Frank needs. But there’s something about this night that makes it feel like Frank’s heart is beating in his chest for the first time since Maria slipped under the gentle hush of end-of-life painkillers and never surfaced.

                He shoves the truck door open. His boots hit the asphalt with a definitive _thump_.

                He deletes every one of those text messages. As a kindness, as the only act of mercy he can afford, he doesn’t make himself block Jason’s number.

                He’s got no doubt in his mind that Jason – as mercurial as he is, as fast as he moves, as eagerly as he rushes headlong toward the next car crash – won’t even remember his name in the morning. He tells himself that’s for the best, tells himself that’s what he’s hoping for.

                It’s the least of the lies he’s been telling himself lately.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from "It Will Come Back" by Hozier, which is the unofficial theme song of this series so far.
> 
> For fic updates and more unusual AUs, follow me on [tumblr](https://thepartyresponsible.tumblr.com/).


End file.
